


I Will Never, Ever, Ever (Ever!) Drink Again

by okieday17



Series: Funny running into you here [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Drinking, F/M, Hangover, Morning After, robb and jon are going to kill him, theon's been bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 14:18:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okieday17/pseuds/okieday17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Filling this prompt:<br/>Sansa/Theon Modern AU</p><p>Waking up after Arya and Gendry's wedding, was head-splitting pain. All he could remember was Arya, Gendry, Robb, Jon and him taking shots. Then he realized he was not alone in the bed, but Sansa fucking Stark was next to him, both of them without clothes. Robb and Jon were going to kill him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Will Never, Ever, Ever (Ever!) Drink Again

**Author's Note:**

> So obviously it's an AU, and I did what I wanted to with the character's ages...so yes...

_Fucking a, Jesus fucking Christ, mother-fucking cocksucker._

 

Theon woke up in what ranked spectacularly low on his (on anybody’s really) list of ways to wake up—with head-splitting pain and a hangover that could only be categorized as a level five earthquake version of the world ending. Or, at least that would be how he would describe if he were his usual quick and alert self. Instead, he woke up with the kind of head pounding that only deserved one thought: _Fucking a, Jesus fucking Christ, mother fucking cock sucker._

 

Theon groaned as sleep drifted further and further away from him, the deep, drunk sleep that had allowed his body to ignore the general throbbing and soreness that came after drinking…however much he had drunk to be in this state. To go off of his past experiences, he would have to guess a lot. Like a lot a lot—like a shitton. He considered opening his eyes, but even shifting them under his extremely heavy eyelids was making shafts of pain stab into his brain, so Theon decided it would be best to leave them closed for the foreseeable future. He decided to take things slow, trying to piece together what the hell had happened last night, ignoring the rolling stomach, the urge he had to puke, the extreme dryness in his mouth, the heaviness of his left arm, and the kind of headache that made him want to pick his own head open with an axe so he could massage his brain.

 

Last night. This was last night’s fault…what exactly had happened last night?

 

Like some sort of bad dream, the longer Theon laid there, the more things started to filter in. Arya and Gendry—wedding. That was it. He had been at his basically adopted sister Arya and Gendry’s wedding—the first of the Starks to get married in a move that had surprised everyone but Arya’s sage father (“She’s always doing what’s least expected of her. Who would have expected her to get married by the age of twenty-one?”).

 

Theon tried to smile at that thought, but instead settled with an uncomfortable grimace that did not require much effort. Okay, so wedding, yes—definitely a wedding. Gendry was a quiet sort who did not have many friends—and Arya came from a large family of three brothers, one half-brother, and Theon, the unofficially-adopted into the family brother who had all acted as groomsmen to Gendry. From twenty-eight year old Robb, Theon and Jon, who had known each other since preschool (Robb asking with a lisp that Theon still teased him about, “Please mum, can Theon spend Chrissmass with us? His dad doesn’t celebrate anymore”), to the youngest Stark child, the rambunctious sixteen year old Rickon they had all dutifully put on their tuxes and grey waistcoats, standing at Gendry’s side at the wedding. Okay, yes—this was starting to make more sense. It had been after the ceremony, when, as the groomsmen were supposed to do at weddings, Robb, Theon and Jon had stolen Gendry away from the crowd of Starks and Baratheon’s, and started passing around the flasks they had been swilling from generously since before the ceremony.

 

And then…oh yeah. Arya, being Arya, had shown up with a tray full of five empty shot glasses and two extremely large (and extremely full) bottles of tequila. After that, it had turned into the usual Stark reminiscing drunk fest, as the bottles had slowly dwindled and dwindled, the Starks and Theon drinking Gendry under the table. He might be a Baratheon, but, like his father, he could only drink so much before he was face down, snoring as the other’s ignored him, continuing to pass the alcohol between the, glasses forgotten as they swilled straight from the bottle.

 

Though, Theon had to admit…everything after the shots was a shadowy mess of, “Okay, did I actually do that? Or just drunk dream that?” So maybe he was not the best person to judge who exactly was or was not a lightweight.

 

Like clockwork, the urge to pee that could only come on as strongly as it did after a night of chugging the diuretic known as alcohol hit him, and Theon gave up on remembering just what had happened after Arya had challenged him to a shot off (Grey eyes glittering as Jon and Robb laughed their asses off, “Rules are simple Greyjoy—every time one of us takes a shot, the other has to until puking or passing out occurs” (He had won, he was sure of that…or dear lord, he had hoped so—to be out drunk by a girl he had known since she was a babe—that would be embarrassing)) and slowly peeled his eyes open. Thank Christ he had been smart enough to close the heavy blinds in the hotel suite he had, or else opening his eyes would have hurt more than it currently did…

 

Theon took a few deep breaths through his nose, fighting the rolling in his stomach, and slowly willed his limbs to move again, making sure everything was good and well attached. It might be stupid but his crazy uncle (no legitimately crazy taken off to the mental house crazy) Aeron had woken up hung over one day to find his right finger missing. It had been that (plus the craziness) that had turned him into an overzealous man of God who wandered the streets telling people they must sacrifice to Jesus Christ or be doomed to die (which was why he was now in the crazy house). It had been sad, as Aeron had been the only one out of his uncles and father that Theon had considered sane up until that point—but thankfully the Starks had been such a huge part of his life by then Theon had only let it roll off of his shoulders. Still, the story of waking up hung over and missing a body part had stuck with him, and so Theon went through the motions of moving his body slowly but surely from the bottom up. There were his toes and feet, good, yes, then his legs, yup, there they were—his back, okay, a little sore, he was not sure what from, but there you have it, to his arms—what the fuck?

 

His right arm moved with no problem, but his left…it felt dead. He remembered the heaviness from earlier, and with a sense of doom turned to his side expecting to find his left hand missing. Theon shifted enough to look to his left, squeezing his eyes closed, before opening them, letting out a loud gasp, quickly followed by an ever louder, “Oh fuck.”

 

There, sleeping on his left arm, curled up to his shoulder, was the elder sister, the one who had been brittle smiling since Arya had gotten engaged (face set in a pinched expression as she answered the same questions over and over again, “Joffrey and I have split. So no, I don’t know when I’ll be getting married. Yes, I am aware Arya is younger than me”)—Sansa fucking Stark. As Theon stared at her, eyes wide and unblinking, he tried to remember where the hell she had come from and what she was doing here. In his bed. Sleeping with his arm propped under her neck, supporting her. Obviously she had been a bridesmaid, the maid of honor last night, but—she had not been doing shots with them…. When had he—fuck.

 

They had been dancing. Theon slowly remembered coming back in, successful versus Arya in his shot-off, holding a new bottle of tequila (his prize, if he remembered correctly), finding Sansa on the dance floor and offering to share his bottle with her if she danced with him (“Come on little Stark-lette. You’ve been eye fucking me since we were standing across each other at the Altar”—dear Lord Sansa must have been wasted to not slap him and run away). They had danced, and…was he remembering correctly that at one point they were in the elevator back to his room, his hand under her dress, her hands fisted in his tux as her mouth sucked on his neck? Or was that a drunken dream? Would not be the first time he had had a dirty dream about the woman—she had basically been one of his first wet dreams, back when he had accidentally walked in on her in the shower when he was thirteen and she was eleven—but it was the first time he could tell you how the skin at the top of her thigh felt so soft, and the delicious moans and groans she made as he had stroked that soft skin….

 

Theon gulped, not taking his eyes off of her, as his brain whirled, trying to remember just what had happened in between the shot-off and this morning. They must have come back here to finish the bottle. She just slept here, that was i—

 

He could not stop himself from letting his doubts get the best of him, as he lifted the comforter they were under, letting out a louder, “Fuck!” When he realized that both of them were extremely naked. He wished he could play this one off to them just getting naked and sharing the bed—but he could not exactly play off the beard burn she had all over her body. His beard burn to be exact.

 

Theon’s eyes flew back to her face, dropping the covers—and was surprised to find himself staring into a set of extremely familiar blue eyes. Blue eyes wide and unblinking, color draining from her already pale face as she, the girl who was so prim and proper she despised the word ‘shut up,’ softly whispered to him, “Fuck.”

 

Theon actually cracked a smile at that, and felt a weird kind of relief (and warmth) when Sansa slowly let her lips curve up into a smile too—until there was a pounding at the door that had both of them staring at the door in horror. Theon’s eyes only grew as he heard two very familiar voices on the other side:

 

“Up and at ‘em sleeping beauty. Jon can barely stand, he needs to get a bloody mary stat!”

 

Jon’s voice was not as chipper as his half-brother’s, “Hurry it up Greyjoy, before he actually pounds the door off of its hinges.”

 

He quickly turned back to the woman in the bed with him, the naked woman in the bed with him, and saw blue eyes larger than his own as Sansa’s breath hitched as the two continued pounding on the door. Theon could not help himself from repeating, “Fucking A, Jesus fucking Christ, mother fucking cock sucker,” And, adding to that silently, _Robb and Jon are going to kill me_.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh man, chances of Robb and Jon never, ever, ever finding out about this? I would have written more of drunk Sansa and Theon, maybe from her perspective, but I think this filled the prompt pretty well--let me know what you think! I crack!ship these two so hard


End file.
